A Bit Too Good

One of my favorite sports that I played growing up was lacrosse.  It was relatively new to my high school when I joined the team. And I found that I was really good at it. I played center and rarely lost a draw. I could read the field and know what was happening before it happened. I loved that game and went through a bit of mourning when I realized my college didn't have a team.

A few years ago the town where my daughters attend school began a U10 lacrosse program for girls. The high school has a reputation for being really good, so I was excited that my girls could be exposed to the sport I love at such a young age. Last year was their first year playing, and I found myself helping to coach the team. Almost all the players had never played before. They improved immensely throughout the season and had a great time.

Well, lacrosse season has rolled around again and a few months back I was a bit worried that we wouldn't even have enough girls to play because most of ours from last year were moving up to the fifth/sixth grade team. So I did a little recruiting. Maybe a little too much. The club offered free stick sessions to come try the sport out. I invited a few kids who ended up inviting a few more and well, you know where that ended up.

Currently I have 16 first through fourth graders on my team and I know of at least four more who will be signing up. Twenty is a great number especially when many of the girls play multiple sports. I am thrilled to be able to help instill a love of the game with players this young.

Now I need to figure out how to make sure all the girls get equal playing time!

Supports

One of the things that my school does really well is meet the needs of students, whether this be in small groups or one one one. Besides my responsibility as a STEAM teacher, I meet with two students on an individual basis before my plan time, check in with another, and meet with two groups after my lunch offering support with their reading. This afternoon only one of the four students in my first group was here. The other three were out sick. Since there was only one student, I told this child's teacher that she would be back before her normal one o'clock time.

When we got to the room and started our lesson, this girl asked, "Can I stay the whole time?"

"Sure," I replied. "But don't you want to get back to your class?"

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Yes because I like my class, but no because I like being in here."

"Why is that?"

"Because I like what we do. I feel like I am getting better at reading."

And just like that, we worked the full 30 minutes. We went through our routine but instead of competing with three others for my attention, it was just her. Something I think she needed.

And we did finish a few minutes early. But instead of sending her back, I asked if she wanted to help me get things ready for my DK class.

She was elated.

It was then when I realized that sometimes, those small connections make all the difference in the world.

An Old Bag of Tricks

A year ago during my first Slice of Life Challenge, I had a lot of fifth graders participating. Each day they would ask me if they could read what I wrote. Most days, I showed them, but sometimes I didn't feel comfortable letting them read my words. I realized about half way in they were searching for ideas. So during the commenting challenge, I compiled a list of posts that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I printed out the list and handed it to my students. It seems fitting that today, a day that I just don't feel well and can't really think straight, I am going to look at that document that I created to give me an idea for my slice. (Looking for ideas, read this post for inspiration.)

I can write with that....

I can write with the pounding going on inside my head as each side sees who could be louder.

I can write with the two kiddos marching down the hall for group saying "It's only the two Robertsons today."

I can write with the echo of the train as it passes my house across the river on this clear and cold evening.

I can write with the words of my son asking if I am ready to help him study for his science test.

I can write with the heater blowing full force trying to make its way into the cool house.

I can write with the heaviness of my eyelids trying to stay open as to not allow this cold to win.

And I can write with the clicking of the keys as they make their way across this page.

The Gift of Time

I haven't heard my mother's voice in almost 21 years, but I can still hear it in my head most days. When I was younger she was a constant at every recital, sporting event, play. You name it, and she was there. She also made sure that my sisters and I were exposed to whatever activity we wanted to try. As a kid I tried piano, violin, trombone, and clarinet. I also played soccer, lacrosse, basketball, and softball. I took ballet, modeling classes and did art. Many of these lasted a session or two. Some longer.  It just depended on my interest. She never pressured me into making a choice or sticking with one thing or another. She also nurtured my love of the outdoors and sent me to dozens of day camps and eventually sleep away camps. At the time, I didn't realize the sacrifice that she and my father made in terms of money and time. I also didn't realize how fortunate I was to be able to be exposed to so many things.

Now that I have three kids of my own who want to participate in many activities, I find myself thinking of my mother. Spring is extremely busy in our house. There is soccer, baseball, lacrosse (for both girls and me-I coach), Girls on the Run, a full time job, a part time job, and just being a mother. When I find myself feeling a bit overwhelmed, I think of my own mother and the sacrifices she made. The time she gave up to drive me and my sisters from one activity to the next, cheering us on.

And I also think that I don't have many more years of this. Five for the oldest followed by seven and eight. I know that I will never get this time back. I also know that when my own children are adults they will look back on their childhood and be thankful for being given the opportunities to find their passion.

I just wish my mother were here so I could properly thank her. Thank her for helping me to be the person I am today. Thank her for all of her time. But then again, she probably knows. Because mothers are like that.

A Labor of Love

When I first graduated from college, I knew that I didn't want to be an art teacher although I had an art and elementary education degree.

I was drawn to the inner city. It could have been because I spent the first ten years of my life living in Detroit or the small town that I attended college in resembled a mini D. Whatever the case, I found myself back in the place I grew up in. I taught at a performing arts charter school located at Six and a Half Mile and Nevada. Not the safest neighborhood but one where I felt at home.

I didn't teach art.

Instead, I opted for second grade. I was a first year teacher. I don't care where you teach. Your first year is hard. From learning what works, how to communicate with families, figuring out discipline, and trying to just stay afloat. I had great mentors, asked a lot of questions, and just loved my students. The school I was at embraced creativity, and I found that many of my students had the same struggles I had as a student. So I did what worked for me in school. I started to incorporate A LOT of art into what I taught.

As the years went on and the districts changed, one thing remained constant: my love for art inspired lessons. There were quilts and digital stories and drawings and book projects and birds and a published children's book about plastic pollution. But I want to make one thing clear.

I didn't teach art.

So 21 years in, I traded my gen ed classroom position for a creative arts position. I teach STEAM and have a little more of an art emphasis than most.

Today, between my son's soccer games, I found myself cutting out kindergartners because they won't cut themselves. I have about 200 of them to do. I'm not even a quarter of the way through. It's tedious. But so worth it. They are part of a mixed media project. As I stare at the faces looking back at me, I am brought back to last week when the students were coloring their sky. It was a simple concept. Rub the background with your paperless crayon or crayons. When I first showed them how to do it, there was an eerie silence in the air followed my so many "Ohhhhhhs." It was as if I was a magician performing a magic trick. The skies were anything but blue filled with an array of colors then splattered with balloons. Ones the students will hold onto.

Next week, they will create skylines. Because, you know, life wouldn't be as exciting if you weren't holding onto a bunch of balloons in the sky high above the world below. Helping students see the potential they didn't think they had. Helping them see that anything is possible when you take it one step at a time.

This is magic to me because now, 22 years after I received my art degree, I finally teach art.

A kindergartner waiting to be attached to her bundle of balloons. 

Changing Habits

When I changed school districts and positions this past fall, I never imagined that my writing would suffer. Actually, I thought the time I would be able to spend on it would increase but that is not the case. I went from teaching fifth grade writing to kindergarten-first grade STEAM. Things are different.

I have traded correcting papers for cutting out lamination.

Knowing the names of 90 kids to trying to remember 400.

Following a curriculum to creating my own.

Enjoying a quiet classroom to embracing and encouraging conversation.

When I first started out as a STEAM teacher, I had this vision of trying to incorporate journals into my daily routine. That worked for a split second until I realized that time was my enemy. I am a thinker and writer and maker. I mourned my idea and worked at trying to include literacy in different ways.

We have a caterpillar, EETCHY,  that leaves mystery objects for my kindergartners. They use this tool to help figure out the item. Little do they know that EETCHY will be the backbone to their research unit on animals.

My first graders are recording PSA's for the weekly announcements focusing on an issue in the school that is important for everyone to hear. Today, it was the rules of taking part in an indoor walking recess.

There are books. A few baskets of them for my early finishers or students that just need a break. The students get excited when there are new ones in the basket.

And mentor texts. Every single lesson I do is centered around a mentor text. It's our routine and works.

Someone once told me that the difference between kindergarten and fifth grade is simple. With kindergartners you have to be emotionally available all day long. The end of the day comes and you are too exhausted to think. With fifth graders, they can take care of themselves, for the most part, during the day but the exhaustion comes after school hours when you are up late correcting papers or worrying about the child in your class that needs to take care of her siblings so she can't do her homework.

But I thought it would be different. I thought that since I am a creative arts teacher that it wouldn't be so emotionally draining and I would have more energy in the evenings. Um, no! Just as tired as everyone else. Too tired to read. Too tired to write. So exhausted that I haven't participated in Slice of Life Tuesday in over a month. I have every intention of doing it. Plan out the post in my head but never get around to pulling out the computer and typing my thoughts up.

So with March, a month I would just like to skip because we are so busy it is a bit overwhelming, I am going to change some habits. One of them is writing. More time. A little each day to participate in this challenge. Thirty-one days. And hopefully when I am done, my writing will once again be a habit that is part of my day.

Forever Ten

One of the things I have always had my students do at the end of the school year is write me a letter. Over the years, the content of the letters has changed, but one thing has always remained constant: their value. You will find each class set of letters in their own binder. Each letter has a photo attached to it. It may take me a while to remember your name if I run into you, but once I have it, a flood of memories surface. I can tell you what type of student you were in my classroom. Little things that you did. Your likes and dislikes.

At the end of every year, I pull all the binders out and let my current students read them. They like to see what school was like for the students that came before.

Then it is their turn to write me a letter. And their binder becomes a part of who I am just like all the others.

Recently, though, the letters in these binders have become invaluable.

I have had to pull a couple.

Copy them.

And do the unimaginable.

Send the originals to parents.

Because they lost their child.

Not one set but two.

Two former students in just as many months.

Tonight I read both letters. The one you wrote me in third and fourth grade because I was fortunate to loop with your class. That second year of having your group was unbelievable. There was a closeness in our classroom community that I haven't had since. We all knew each other and were like family. We started fourth grade where we left off in third. And I have memories of you.

I remember you standing in the doorway of my corner classroom with its red trim excited for another year of camp.

I remember you not reading all of your book report book, doing the project, then feeling so guilty about it you couldn't keep it in any longer. You finally told me and apologized.

I remember your quiet demeanor and old soul, wise beyond your years.

I remember your beautiful handwriting and was proud that I taught you to write like that.

But most importantly, when I think of you, I remember your ten year old self because that is the age you were when I last taught you.

Rest in peace sweet Tiffany. May you find comfort in your new home. Your words will always be with me. Always.